


When You Put Your Arms Around Me

by Kroki_Refur



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-04-11
Updated: 2007-04-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:27:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,512
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28076202
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kroki_Refur/pseuds/Kroki_Refur
Summary: The witch is dead, the hunt's over, and all's right with the world. Yeah, we all know how long that's gonna last.
Kudos: 2





	1. Chapter 1

“You do that, and you’ll regret it,” she says, staring at Dean’s hand.  
  
Dean grins, because he doesn’t remember ever regretting setting fire to something, and lets the match drop.  
  
And there it is, hunt over, easy as pie. The witch is cursing at him in her own language (because she’s the real deal, Eastern European or whatever, none of this teenage girl Wicca crap they’ve been having so much trouble with lately) before the altar really catches fire, but she can’t get free of the grip Sam has on her arms, and pretty soon there’s nothing left but ash. She’s human, which is a drag because it means they can’t waste her, but it’ll take her years to build up a decent amount of power again, and when she does, well, Dean figures they’ll just come back and burn it all again. He likes burning shit, so that’s OK.  
  
She stares at him as they leave, eyes glittering even though the fire’s pretty much out now. “You’ll regret it,” she says.  
  
Dean grins and says he’s looking forward to it. Sam complains that no-one ever takes him seriously enough to want to make _him_ regret stuff, and Dean points out that if he didn’t keep hawking mucus back into his system like a demented three year old, they might. Sam mutters something about how much he hates colds, but Dean’s not listening, because he _knows_ that, it’s not like he could avoid knowing. Sam’ll take broken bones and death visions and being choked to death every two seconds without (much) complaint, but give him a cold, and he could whine for his country. It’s got to the point where Dean has a, what's it called, you know, the thing with that guy with the dog and the trifle. Pavlovian, right, a Pavlovian reaction, where if Sam sniffs more than once in ten minutes, Dean’s ready to hightail it out of there until the dust has settled.  
  
Anyway, hunt’s over, and Dean’s got energy to burn, but Sam’s settled right in to the whining now (and seriously, the witch was really fixing to eviscerate them at one point, chanting and everything, and Dean figures getting your guts ripped out _has_ to come higher on Sam’s scale of priorities than a blocked-up nose, but apparently he’s wrong), and by the time they get back to the motel, Dean wants nothing more than to go where Sam isn’t. That’s pretty simple, since no way is Sam going to a bar in his current _condition_ , so Dean leaves him to it and spends the evening in the pleasant company of Candi, whose nose appears to be in perfect working order.  
  
Next morning, Sam’s running a fever, and man, that pisses Dean off, not because it interferes with their plans – they don’t have anything lined up, and they’re not in danger of being run out of town just yet – but because Dean’s pretty sure Sam’s _smug_ about it, like for once he’s got proof that his cold really _is_ worse than everyone else’s. Whatever, the fever’s only slight, so Dean puts him to bed (or, actually, Sam pretty much never got out of bed, so Dean just instructs him to stay there) and tells him to sleep it off, then goes to find a diner to kill some time. A few hours and about a gallon of coffee later, he goes back to find that not only is Sam’s fever gone, but his cold’s history too, and he’s actually acting like a human being again, thank Christ. So yeah, they hit the road, no reason to stay any more.  
  
So it’s all good, tooling around the backroads of Middle America like always, sunny afternoon and Dean’s got noplace specific in mind, just driving where the mood takes him. Only after a few hours, he notices Sam’s looking kind of flushed, and when he reaches over to feel his forehead (which earns him a swat and a confused yelp) the fever’s definitely back. Well, shit.  
  
They’re two hours from the nearest town big enough to have a motel, but the fever’s not so bad, and Dean figures he’ll shove a couple of Tylenol down Sam’s throat and everything’ll be fine. Sam takes the pills without complaining (of _course_ he’s not complaining, his cold is still gone, and Dean’s not above thanking Heaven for small mercies, even if he does think Heaven’s a crock of shit), and falls asleep soon after, which suits Dean just fine, except how he feels kind of bad for blasting Black Sabbath. Not that that stops him doing it, though. Sam’s slept through worse.  
  
They get to a motel finally, and Dean reaches over to wake Sam (because yeah right he’s carrying his heavy-ass economy-sized brother into the building, what, he’s a Sherpa now?) and finds his skin’s definitely hotter than before, Tylenol or no Tylenol, and slick with sweat now, too. Sam blinks awake, groggy and confused.   
  
“Dean?” he says. “Where are we?”  
  
Dean doesn’t have an answer to that, because actually, he has no idea. He’s pretty sure he checked the name on the welcome sign on the way in to this little burg, but he’s damned if he can remember it now. “Motel,” he says. “Time to get you to bed, sparky.”  
  
He hauls Sam out of the car (OK, so he doesn’t mind a _little_ hauling, better than letting Sam sleep in the Impala and sweat all over the upholstery, and that _totally_ doesn’t count as being a Sherpa) and shoves him in the direction of the room, watching him carefully to make sure he’s not going to fall, but Sam seems steadier once he’s actually on his feet, makes it there without incident. Dean grabs the duffles from the trunk, and by the time he gets inside, Sam is stretched out on top of the covers on one of the beds.  
  
“Dude, get undressed first,” Dean says, plunking down the bags and thinking about taking a shower.  
  
“’M not asleep,” Sam says, and Dean rolls his eyes.  
  
By the time he gets out of the shower, Sam most definitely _is_ asleep (but not snoring, which is a relief after the past few nights of mucus-induced nose-opera), and still dressed. Typical. Not only is Dean a Sherpa, he’s, like, a handmaiden or something. Or a manservant. Yeah, because that sounds _so_ much better.  
  
“Goddamn,” he mutters, and takes off Sam’s shoes and socks, noting that the skin of his ankles feels slightly cooler than his forehead did earlier. Sam can’t make up his mind whether to be hot or not, clearly, and that’s so un _Sam_ that Dean decides he really _must_ be sick.  
  
By the time Dean’s got most of Sam’s outer clothing off, Sam’s shivering, curling up on his side in a way that _really_ isn’t making Dean’s job any easier, and his skin’s burning up again, worse than before if anything. Dean sits on the edge of the bed and rests a hand on Sam’s arm (because he figures maybe it’ll calm Sam down a little, obviously, Sam’s a girl like that) and reads the instructions on the Tylenol. Sam’s got to wait another hour before he can have more, and Dean sighs and stretches out on the bed beside his brother (in case Sam wakes up and needs him, OK?) and tries not to feel the heat coming off him.  
  
An hour later, and Sam’s started muttering and moaning in his sleep, and Dean wakes him up enough to get him to swallow the pills, but Sam’s pretty much out of it even then, eyes flat and glassy like a cat’s, blinking at Dean like he can’t quite focus.   
  
“Hey, kiddo,” Dean says, cupping a hand on each side of Sam’s face because he thinks vaguely that maybe it’s a good idea to try and keep him grounded. “You doing OK in there? You’re gonna save us a bundle on heating this place, I tell ya.”  
  
Sam stares. “Dean?” he says, stuttering a little over the word. “That you?”  
  
Dean chews his lip. Fuck, he hates dealing with fevers this bad. It’s not like it’s the first time – though it’s been Dad more often than Sam, always too bull-headed to recognise the signs of infection – but it never gets any easier, and Dean almost prefers more serious injuries because whenever Dad or Sam looks at him and doesn’t really see him – it’s like the worst thing he can imagine.  
  
“Yeah, it’s me,” he says.  
  
Sam struggles a little, pushes back the blankets. “What’s going on?”  
  
“You’re sick,” says Dean. “Go back to sleep.”  
  
And Sam, who’s always gone his own way, does exactly as he’s told.  
  
\----  
  
Dean wakes up with a start in the middle of the night and can’t figure out where he is and why he’s lying with his side against a radiator. Then he gets it, and _fuck_ , that’s Sam, and there’s no _way_ his skin should be that hot. Dean needs to figure this out, there’s something more going on here than a virus, but first he needs to get Sam’s temperature down.  
  
Sam’s not really awake as Dean drags him to the bathroom, and he’s certainly not moving under his own steam, but he’s pawing at Dean anyway, clutching at his t-shirt and whimpering. Dean dumps him in the tub, gently pulls his hands away and starts running the cold water. Sam moans as the stream hits his skin, then starts to make more frantic noises as the water level begins to rise.  
  
“Cold,” he says. “Cold, God. Dean, it hurts.”  
  
His eyes aren’t even open, and Dean rubs his hand over his mouth, because he knows that this has gotta suck for Sam, even out of it like he is, but the temperature’s gotta come down, there’s no two ways about it. He puts his hand in the tub, stirs the water a little (God, it’s like sticking his hand in a freakin freezer, what, they get their water straight from Alaska or whatever?), splashes some onto the parts of Sam that are still dry. Sam’s eyes snap open, and he lurches forward, trying to get away, but Dean steels himself and pushes him down, ignoring Sam’s pained pleas (or, well, not acting on them anyway, because he can’t _ignore_ them, can’t stop them from eating away at him), trying to get as much of him under the water as possible. Even now Sam’s skin feels dangerously hot under his hands, his face is flushed and his eyes are rolling wildly.   
  
“Hurts,” he says. “Dad, please, don’t.”  
  
Dean’s pretty much ready to panic now. Jesus, this morning Sam had a _cold_ , and now he’s burning up like there’s something actually on fire under his skin, and it’s not getting better. Dean’s dealt with Sam sick, with Sam in pain, hell, Dean nursed Sam through pretty much every childhood disease known to man (because Sam _always_ insisted on being goddamn normal, even when that meant throwing up all over his big brother), but he’s never seen this before, and suddenly he remembers how easy it is to lose a person, you think everything’s fine and then, bam, they’re gone. Dean knows you can lose someone in minutes, lose your entire life in less time than it takes to boil an egg.  
  
And then Sam’s eyes roll back in his head, and his arms and legs start jerking rapidly, sending sharp staccato ripples across the bathtub, and Dean figures right about now is a good time to call an ambulance.


	2. Chapter 2

  
So Dean’s day is going from bad to worse, and considering the _bad_ was more like _really fucking atrocious_ , that’s not a good sign. Sam’s skin is turning blue, and Dean doesn’t have a clue what to do about it, and Sam’s arms and legs are still jerking like he’s having a fit ( _a seizure, he’s having a goddamn seizure_ ), and Dean’s not sure whether to try and stop them or not, and he’s trying to dial 911 at the same time as reaching for Sam’s legs where it looks like they’re going to smash against the taps, and then Sam’s head slips under the water and Dean curses and drops the phone ( _he’s an idiot, he’s a fucking_ idiot _, he should have got him out of the tub first_ ) and plunges forward, the freezing water like fucking needles on his skin, like getting an instantaneous set of full-sleeve tattoos, grabbing Sam around the chest and hauling him out.  
  
Fuck, though, Jesus fucking _Christ_ , because whatever it is that Sam’s having ( _seizure_ ), it’s made him breathe in water, and he was only under for a few seconds but now he’s not breathing, he’s still jerking like he’s being shocked but he’s not fucking _breathing_ , and Dean can’t breathe himself, because how can he breathe if Sam’s not, he doesn’t know _how_.  
  
He’s not thinking straight (not thinking at all) and he’s still got his arms wrapped round Sam, the skin of Sam’s neck burning against his cheek, and he drags him fully out of the tub and lays him on the floor and for a moment he just has no idea what to do ( _Sam’s not breathing_ ) and his chest is burning, there’s water dripping down his arms and his hands and feet are tingling and going numb and oh Jesus Dean _breathe_ , you can’t help Sam if you don’t _breathe_.  
  
So he breathes, because if there’s one thing he really needs to do, it’s help Sam. And once he’s had a couple of breaths, he hauls Sam up again and gives him the Heimlich, which is pretty much unavoidably funny (come on, they _always_ use it on those crappy slapstick shows), except for how it’s really, really not, and Sam’s still not breathing and his jerking is slowing down now and a second ago Dean would never have believed that that could make him feel even worse.  
  
He does it again, face pressed between Sam’s shoulderblades and he can’t tell if he’s crying or if it’s just the water from the bath, because now that Sam’s out the droplets on his skin have warmed up pretty damn fast. And then Sam chokes and spits out water, coughs and breathes in, and Dean collapses on his side, arms still locked around Sam’s waist, and Jesus, _Jesus_ that’s got to never happen again, not ever.  
  
Sam’s breathing raggedly, and he’s stopped jerking ( _seizing_ ), and for a minute Dean just lies there on the soaking tiles and wonders how the hell this happened. Then he remembers the phone, remembers the ambulance, and, well, he pretty much hates letting strangers look after his brother, but on the other hand, maybe they won’t be dumb enough to almost let Sam drown. Yeah, ambulance is a good plan.  
  
\----  
  
OK, so, ambulance would have been a better plan if they had let him freakin ride in the back, because Dean hasn’t seen his brother for four hours, since they slammed the doors of the sick-wagon and left him to follow in the Impala, and he’s ready to start shooting some people to find out what the hell is going on. The doctors are about as helpful as a set of skis in Hell, and the nurses are shooting him looks like they’re gonna kick him out if he doesn’t stop pacing and growling (and if they try, some _serious_ shit is gonna go down, Dean’s not fucking kidding around here), and the walls are the colour of freakin _guacamole_ , who in God’s name thought that was a good idea, it makes Dean want to start punching holes in them.  
  
Dean’s done this before, too many goddamn times, but before he’s always had an idea, at least, he’s seen Dad or Sam go down, seen the injury, he’s got experience, he knows how to tell when something’s serious. This time, he has no clue. Sam had a cold, then Sam had a fever, then Sam had a fucking _seizure_ , and there’s nothing, there’s nothing to explain what the hell is going on and no-one will fucking _tell_ him.  
  
That’s it, Dean’s going to find the nearest doctor and beat the shit out of him until he gets some answers. That is, until one of the fuckers actually shows up and calls his name (or the name he’s going under right now, anyway), and, well, she’s kind of a girl, so Dean figures maybe beating the shit out of her isn’t such a great idea.  
  
“Mr. Maxwell,” she says. “Your brother’s going to be fine.”  
  
 _Oh thank Christ_. Dean feels his legs start to give way under him, and he puts a hand out, leans against the wall (he’s just tired, OK? He can’t have slept more than three hours). “What the hell happened?”  
  
“He had some sort of infection,” the doctor says, “but he’s responding well to the antibiotics, and his fever’s coming down rapidly. You did the right thing calling the ambulance, you saved his life.”  
  
 _Sammy could have died. Sammy_ would _have died._ OK, Dean _really_ needs a chair now, and anyone who makes anything out of that is getting a knuckle sandwich just as soon as his hands stop shaking. “What kind of infection?” he asks. _Where did he get it? How the hell did it get past me?_  
  
That’s where the doctor frowns a little, and OK, Dean’s kind of freaked out and not at his best, but he knows a frown when he sees it. “The bloodwork’s inconclusive,” she says. “Could be all manner of things. The important thing is, the treatment’s working.”  
  
And yeah, OK, Dean’s willing to admit that that’s the most important thing. Sammy’s not going to die. That might just be the most important thing ever.  
  
\----  
  
They let him see Sam around dawn, and Dean stumbles gratefully into the room and drops into the waiting chair. He’s done this before, he knows how to do this, bedside vigils like fucking _General Hospital_ except without so much melodrama, at least while Sam’s still out of it. Everything’s OK, and he’s just got to wait it out, because OK, the fever lasted less than twenty-four hours, but it was high ( _dangerously high_ , the doctor said, like he didn’t know that, like he hadn’t freakin _felt_ Sam burning against his skin), and Sam’s body’s had a lot to deal with. He asks them about the seizure, but they shake their heads, quiz him about epilepsy and then tell him that he must be mistaken, and Dean’s _not_ mistaken, he remembers Sam’s eyes rolling back in his head, his limbs jerking ( _Jesus Christ Sammy’s dying, Sammy’s going to die_ ), but he’s too tired to argue. Sam’s getting better, and it doesn’t matter any more.  
  
Around ten, Sam wakes up. His face is still flushed and sweaty, and he looks pale, weirdly thin even though it’s not been long enough for him to have lost weight. Dean leans forward, smiles too wide. “Glad you could join us, Rip van.”  
  
Sam blinks, groggy, and puts a hand to his head, missing by an inch. He pulls the hand forward and wiggles it in front of his face, staring in confusion. “What the hell happened?”  
  
“Dude,” says Dean, “you know, just because I said you were a whiny bitch when you had a cold doesn’t mean you have to prove anything to me.”  
  
Sam’s shaking his head slowly from side to side. “I have... a cold?” he says, and Dean sees that teasing’s not going to get him very far. Sam’s fever’s come down a hell of a lot, but he’s still not all there. Which, really, is the most awesome time to make fun of Sam, so.  
  
“Not any more,” Dean says. “The doctors say you burned all the snot out of your system. You know, most people just go for that stinky shit, you know, eucalyptus or whatever, but hey, I say go with what works.”  
  
Sam stares at him and blinks once, frowns. “You making fun of me?”  
  
Dean lets his smile spread even wider. “When am I not?”  
  
Sam’s eyes slip closed. “Jackass.”  
  
And yeah, OK, Dean kinda is a jackass. Lucky he’s so goddamn handsome, or people might dislike him.  
  
\----  
  
Dean wakes up with his head on the edge of Sam’s bed and Sam’s hand under his (what? Dean can’t be held responsible for where his hand might have landed while he was _sleeping_ , for Christ’s sake), and it takes him a minute to work out where he is. Another minute, though, and he’s aware that something’s wrong, because Sam’s hand is actually uncomfortable to touch, it’s so hot, and he can hear someone moaning.  
  
He’s sitting up in a second, leaning over Sam and grabbing his face, and Sam’s skin is so goddamn _hot_ , slippery with sweat under his fingers, and Sam’s eyes are open, staring, his pupils dilated even in the semi-darkness. He’s gasping like he can’t breathe properly, and Dean’s fucked, he is so fucked.  
  
He’s yelling, he realises, but he has no idea what the words are, he just hopes that someone hears them because they _said_ he was getting better, they _said_ it, but Dean knows better when he sees it, and this sure as hell isn’t it. Someone’s grabbing his arms, pulling him away, and he has to force himself to remember that he’s in hospital and that he _can’t_ help Sam, no matter how much he wants to, has to force himself to let go and not take a swing at the bastard who’s dragging him away from his brother.  
  
There’s a swarm of people round the bed now, and Dean staggers back, hits the wall, which is good because otherwise he thinks he might have just fallen over ( _Sam was getting better_ ). He blinks, tries to listen to what they’re saying, but Sam’s body has gone rigid and now he’s jerking again, his eyes rolling wild in his head and Dean can’t watch, can’t bear to watch his brother move like that, it looks so inhuman, but at the same time he can’t look away because if Sam, if... if something happens and Dean’s not looking, if Dean looks away and loses his last chance to look at Sam, well, that’s not something he wants to contemplate. So he keeps his eyes on Sam even as he slides down the wall, doesn’t look away for a moment, because he didn’t see this for Mom, didn’t see it for Dad, and it hurts like hell but Sam deserves to have someone watching at least.  
  
“Temp’s 107.8,” says one of the nurses, and a doctor curses roundly, and Dean feels the room swimming in front of his eyes.  
  
“He’s stopped breathing,” someone else says, and at that point Dean doesn’t hear anything else, it’s like all sound has just stopped, like someone’s cut the wire to the speakers, and the doctors are moving, one of them’s leaning over Sam, forcing his mouth open and shoving in something that looks like a medieval torture implement (and Dean should know, he’s seen enough of them), and for a moment he thinks _they’re torturing Sammy, why are they torturing him, they’re meant to be_ saving _him_ (except, obviously, it’s _Dean_ who’s meant to be saving him), but before he can get to the point of trying to stop them his brain kicks in and he knows what they’re doing, he sees the doctor carefully push a tube into Sam’s mouth and down, deeper that it should be able to go, Sam ought to be choking on it but he isn’t, Sam isn’t doing anything except lying there like he’s dead.  
  
Then someone’s blocking his view ( _blocking his view of Sam, oh God, he needs to see Sam_ ), and he fights them, tries to push them away, but moments later he’s in the corridor with no idea how he got there and he can’t see Sam any more. He turns to go back into the room, but there’s a guy standing there and he says _please, sir, let the doctors work_ , and Dean’s torn, because maybe going in there will interfere, stop them from saving Sam, but maybe they aren’t going to save Sam anyway. It’s _his_ job, saving Sam, and he doesn’t know if anyone else can do it ( _doesn’t know if he can do it_ ).  
  
Sam was getting better. And forty-eight hours ago, Sam had a cold. Dean doesn’t know what to think any more, so he sits down on the floor and waits for this nightmare to be over.  
  
\----  
  
It’s not the same doctor as before, this time it’s a guy, but Dean’s past the stage of wanting to kick the shit out of someone by now (past the stage of wanting anything except for Sam not to be dead), so the guy’s pretty safe. He looks grave, though. Dean hates it when people look grave.  
  
“We managed to bring your brother’s temperature down to safe levels,” he says, and Dean breathes out long and slow. “You say he had a seizure before you called the ambulance?”  
  
Dean nods, slowly, because he’s not convinced his head is going to stay on his shoulders. “Like in there,” he says, and pushes away the images of Sam’s lips turning blue.  
  
“What was Sam doing before he got sick?” the doctor asks, and Dean shrugs (because he figures _burning a witch’s altar_ isn’t exactly what the guy wants to hear) and says _nothing special_.  
  
“And then you say he had a slight fever which got steadily worse?”  
  
Dean nods. He’s said all this before, more than once. He wants to know what the hell’s going on, and now that he knows Sam’s not dead, he’s maybe actually thinking about the whole beating angle again, because _damn_ , these questions are beginning to piss him off. “Doc, what’s wrong with my brother?”  
  
The doctor glances down, nervous, and Dean thinks _shit, but he’s getting better, right?_ Then the guy says, “Mr. Maxwell, fever isn’t a disease in itself, it’s a symptom. The problem is, in Sam’s case, we haven’t been able to find out what it’s a symptom _of_.”  
  
Dean thinks about this. “You said he had an infection.”  
  
The doctor nods. “All the bloodwork came back clean. We’ve done ever test we can think of, and there’s no sign of any infection.”  
  
Dean frowns. “Then what...?”  
  
“His most recent... episode was indicative of heatstroke,” the doctor says, his mouth pulled down at the corners, and Dean’s about to say _what the fuck?_ , because Sam’s been in the freakin hospital all day, it’s not like he’s in Death Valley or whatever, they’re in goddamn _Washington_ for Christ’s sake. Before he has the chance, though, the doctor says, “Obviously, that can’t be the case, given that Sam hasn’t been exposed to abnormally high temperatures. The problem is, it’s the only explanation for the seizures.”  
  
Dean’s shaking his head slowly, because the more he listens, the more he’s thinking that this is not natural, and that’s screwed up, and suddenly he can remember the fucking witch babbling in Bulgarian or whatever the goddamn hell it was and saying _you’ll regret it_ , and _Christ_ , he said he was looking _forward_ to it. “Can’t you get seizures from fever?”  
  
The doctor shakes his head. “Febrile seizures only occur in young children. It doesn’t make any sense. But then, nothing about your brother’s case makes sense.”  
  
Dean rubs his hand over his face. He needs to shave. How can he freakin _shave_ when Sam can’t even breathe for himself, when every time he closes his eyes he sees Sam jerking like a landed fish? He’d probably just end up cutting his own throat, and OK, so he would be in the right place to get fixed up, but he figures no-one would thank him for getting blood all over the floor. “He’s gonna be OK, though, right?”  
  
“Sam’s fever is coming down,” the doctor says. “It was dangerously high for an hour, which is long enough to cause organ damage, but all the signs are that he came through OK. But given his relapse and the fact that we still haven’t found the cause, I can’t make any promises.”  
  
Dean’s listening, kind of, but his brain’s stuck on _organ damage_. The witch is dead. She is so fucking dead. And when he’s killed her, he’s going to resurrect her so he can kill her all over again. “Can I see him?” he asks.  
  
\----  
  
They won’t let him into the room with Sam this time; they say that since they don’t know what’s causing the fever, they can’t risk him bringing in any other infections that could fuck Sam up in his weakened state. OK, yeah, so they don’t actually use the words _fuck Sam up_ , but Dean knows they’re thinking it. The room’s got an observation window, though, and Dean stands behind it, mesmerised by the sight of his brother’s chest moving in tandem with the concertina of the ventilator. Concertina down – Sam’s chest up. Concertina up – Sam’s chest down. It’s like they’re freakin dancing or something, and Dean almost grins, because it’s so lame and clumsy and not to any kind of rhythm, which is exactly how Sam dances, like he’s a puppet and the guy who’s pulling the strings only listens to electronica crap. He doesn’t grin, though, because they’re not dancing, that machine right there is pushing air into Sam’s lungs, forcing Sam to breathe, and that’s enough to make Dean want to puke.  
  
Dean doesn’t fall asleep this time. He’s going to kill the witch, he’s going to head on right back there and rip her head off (after she’s reversed the spell, of course), but he wants to make sure Sam isn’t going to up and die on him while he’s gone. The nurses come in every now and then, wearing masks and plastic jackets like Sam’s got some freakin sci-fi apocalypse disease or whatever, check the temperature, come out and smile at Dean. After five hours, Sam’s temperature is only half a degree above normal, and the doc shows up, shakes his head in amazement and pulls the tube out of Sam’s throat.  
  
They let Dean in, then, though he’s got to wear the stupid mask thing too, and it makes him look like he’s a doctor on _General Hospital_ , which he guesses is a step up from _distraught family member of the week_ , but, you know, he’s never liked that show so he’s still kinda pissed off about it.  
  
Sam’s awake from the extubation, and he blinks up at Dean, frowns.  
  
“That you, Dean?” he asks, and Dean thinks he’s delirious until he remembers Sam can only see his eyes.  
  
“Yeah, kiddo. You believe this outfit? I thought you were the only one who got a kick out of dressing me up, but I guess maybe it’s contagious or whatever.”  
  
Sam grins weakly. “I told them to make you wear the pirate costume, but no-one ever listens to me.”  
  
Dean feels like maybe he’s going to fall over from the relief of hearing Sam being _Sam_ , but he keeps a hold of himself (because _he’s_ not the one who goes around passing out like a girl), and asks “How’re you feeling?”  
  
Sam rolls his head slightly on his shoulders, closes his eyes, opens them. “Like crap. How’m I looking?”  
  
Dean shrugs. “Like crap.”  
  
“At least I’m consistent,” Sam says. “So what’d the doctors say?”  
  
“That you’re a freak,” Dean says, “but I knew that already, so, you know. Not useful.”  
  
Sam closes his eyes again. He’s sweating. “Dean, seriously. What, do I have to beat it out of you?”  
  
“I am being serious,” Dean says (and OK, he wasn’t, not really, but fuck that, he’s had enough _serious_ ( _serious fever, serious condition_ ) to last weeks). “They have no clue what’s going on. Say there’s no reason for you to be putting out enough heat to power half of New York.”  
  
Sam opens his eyes again, but only half way. “Only half? Man, the way I felt, I should have been able to do the entire state.” He swallows a couple of time. “Witch?”  
  
Dean looks around, but no-one’s at the observation window. “That’s what I figure. I’m going back to waste the bitch.”  
  
“Wait,” Sam says. “Please, just. Stay. For a little while?”  
  
And OK, Dean really _really_ wants to kill something, but seriously, Sam’s such a fucking manipulative bitch with his puppy-dog eyes that are still glittering with fever, what the hell’s Dean supposed to say to that? Maybe Sam’s a witch, too. It would explain a lot. So Dean sits down (just for a few minutes) and Sam drifts off, and half an hour later his fever’s on the up and up again and Dean gets hustled out of the room and he just _can’t do this_ any more.  
  
Except that this time, Sam’s fever peaks much lower and comes back down almost as soon as Dean’s gone. And when Dean’s allowed back in, it starts to rise again. And yeah, Dean’s a pretty face, but that doesn’t mean there’s nothing going on underneath, he’s not _stupid_. What he is, though, is fucked. So utterly fucked. Because it’s him, all this time it’s been him, and he remembers falling asleep next to Sam and wrapping his arms around him when he was seizing and it was _him_ , Jesus fucking _Christ_.   
  
Dean leaves the hospital and starts to run. For the first time in his life, he wants to get as far away from Sam as he possibly can.


	3. Chapter 3

So the witch hasn’t even had the good sense to get the hell out of Dodge, which is crazy because she had to have _known_ Dean would be coming after her, but then that makes sense because witches – real, honest-to-God blood-and-chicken-entrails _witches_ – pretty much are crazy as a rule. Why anyone would want to mess about with eye of newt and toe of whatever just to get their neighbour’s cows to explode is beyond Dean, but apparently that’s how they get their kicks back in the old country. Anyway, she’s still in the house where they found her last time, muttering to herself like a nutjob (oh yeah, Dean’s already been through that loop) and shoving something that smells honestly foul into a little hemp sack. Dean has no idea what that’s for, and he doesn’t want to know. All he wants to do is shove his fist into that old bitch’s chest and squeeze her heart until she begs him to stop.  
  
He’s not going to do that. For one, he needs to get her to reverse the spell. For another, it actually sounds kind of disgusting, and he thinks it might also be physically impossible.  
  
He’s got her shoved up against the wall before she even sees him, and man, of all the women he could have been up against a wall with today, it had to be a crazy old cat-lady whose breath smells of freakin ketchup (which, what the hell?) She doesn’t look scared, though, just grins at him, and he sees that she’s really acting the part, down to only having three teeth in her head.  
  
“I wondered when you’d come back,” she says.  
  
Normally right now Dean’d come up with some smartass remark about breath-mints or dentists or some such shit, but Sam’s almost died more than once in the last forty-eight hours, and he’s not in the mood for pleasantries. Or, you know, unpleasantries. Whatever.  
  
“Reverse the spell, or you’re not gonna have to worry about whether your pension’s gonna last,” Dean says (and oh yeah, that’s why he’s not going for the smartass remarks right now, because he freakin _sucks_ at them when Sam’s in trouble).  
  
She raises her eyebrows. “Hey, boy, you like burning stuff so much? I figure you like this. What, you don’t enjoy burning _people_ so much, huh?”  
  
“Jesus _Christ_ , lady,” Dean snarls, and smashes her back against the wall. “Just reverse the goddamn thing or I’m gonna see how much I like burning _you_.”  
  
She doesn’t look scared, just shrugs. “I can’t reverse it.”  
  
Dean feels like someone’s just poured cold water down his back. “You’re lying.”  
  
“No, not lying.” She grins at him some more, and man, he really wishes dental hygiene had been better in Bulgaria or wherever when this bitch was young, if she ever was. “You burn my altar. Can’t do spells no more. That’s what you wanted, yes?”  
  
Dean stares. And it’s fucked up, because she’s right, of course, he knows she’s not lying because that was the whole freakin _point_ , no way she could build up enough power to do a decent spell for a few years at least, and now it’s blown up in Dean’s face and there’s nothing he can do and it’s _his fault_.  
  
The witch’s grin widens, and Dean wants to smash it in, get rid of those last few teeth and make it a perfect smile, but he doesn’t. She’s fucked him up, him and Sam both, but she’s still human, and Sam’s still alive, and if it was just for him, Dean would have killed her three freakin times by now, but he knows what Sam would say, and he knows he can’t.  
  
And goddamn, Dean’s having a bad couple of days.  
  
\----  
  
When Sam calls, Dean’s been staring into space for a while. In fact, he has no idea how long he’s been sitting there, but his ass cheeks have gone numb, so he figures it’s really longer than it should have been.  
  
“Dude,” says Sam, “what the hell?”  
  
Dean’s not sure what to say. “You OK? Where are you?”  
  
“Don’t change the subject,” Sam says, and he sounds tired and ill and _pissed_ , and OK, fair enough, maybe he’s got reason. “What, you leave me a _note_? Where the hell are you? What the hell was so urgent you couldn’t even come and tell me where you were going?”  
  
Dean closes his eyes. His arm feels heavy, it’s almost too much effort to hold up the phone, and he lies back on the bed. “I, uh. Listen, you OK to find yourself a motel? You got the car key, right?”  
  
Sam exhales loudly, and it sounds like a hurricane on the line. Kid always did have a set of lungs on him. “Yeah, I got the key. I’m in the car now. But I need you come pick me up.”  
  
Dean frowns. “Why?”  
  
“Well, you know that part they always say about not operating heavy machinery?” Sam says. “Turns out cars are heavy.”  
  
 _Fuck_. Dean’s an idiot, but he already knew that. He thought Sam would be OK if he had the car, and now his brother’s sitting in the freakin hospital parking lot and he’s still sick, and Dean’s miles away and can’t help him.  
  
“Dean?” Sam says. “So you gonna tell me what’s going on now or when you come get me?”  
  
“I can’t pick you up,” says Dean, and every word feels like it’s a freakin lump of coal coming up his windpipe. He doesn’t wait for Sam to demand an explanation, starts in on it anyway. When he’s done, there’s silence on the line.  
  
“OK,” Sam says finally. “But you’ve worked out how to reverse it, right?”  
  
Dean digs the nails of his left hand into his thighs, which is pointless because his nails are really freakin short and his thighs are covered in denim, but hey, you can’t blame him for trying. “There’s no way to reverse it,” he says.   
  
“Come on, man, there’s always a way,” says Sam, but he sounds worried.  
  
“No,” says Dean, louder than he meant to. “We burned the altar, Sammy. I burned it. I called Joshua, and he said that’s it.”  
  
There’s silence again, then Sam says, “What, so you’re just giving up?”  
  
Dean would have closed his eyes at this point, but the little fuckers are already closed, so he settles for covering them with his hand, since it’s not doing much good with the whole thigh thing. Jeez, he can’t even get melodramatic gestures right today ( _and he’s never going to be in the same room as his brother again_ ). “We can,” he says, and it fucking _hurts_ , talking about this, thinking about it, all of it makes him feel like he’s trying to breathe underwater. “We can work something out,” he says, trying to sound like he’s got it all under control, when actually he’s dropping like a stone and the ground’s coming up fast. “We’ve just gotta… adjust.” He’s been telling himself that all day, but it doesn’t sound any more convincing now than it did however many hours ago it was that he finally got off the phone with Joshua.  
  
“Screw that,” says Sam, and hangs up.  
  
An hour later, Dean’s still lying in the same position with the phone in his hand when Sam calls back, which is lucky because he figures if he had to move he’d find out first hand whether he’s actually got any muscles left in his body at all, and OK, so his life’s just basically circling the drain right now, and he’s alone in the motel room, but even so, he’s got enough pride left not to want to fall on his ass, because maybe God’s watching or something and Dean doesn’t want to be a laughing stock in the afterlife. “Yeah,” he says, and is almost embarrassed at how pathetic his voice sounds, except he doesn’t have the energy.  
  
“You son of a bitch,” says Sam.  
  
OK, Dean’s not really expecting that, but on the other hand, this mess kinda is his fault, so maybe he deserves it.   
  
“Did you think I wouldn’t bother to call Joshua too?” Sam spits, and then Dean works out why he’s pissed. “Jesus, Dean, you weren’t even going to let me make my own decision?”  
  
“It’s not your decision, it’s mine,” says Dean. “It’s not an alternative, Sam.”  
  
“The hell it isn’t,” says Sam. “Joshua said it wasn’t a huge risk...”  
  
“Joshua said you could _die_ ,” Dean says. “No, scratch that, Joshua said you _would_ die, that was the whole freakin point.”  
  
“Temporarily, Dean!” Sam says, and he starts to add something else, but then he starts coughing harshly, and Dean feels like he’s swallowed a lump of lead.  
  
“Jesus,” Dean says. “Jesus, you OK?”  
  
Sam gasps and splutters a little, then seems to recover himself. “I’m fine,” he says. “Still a little sore from the intubation, is all. Look, where are you? I’m not talking about this over the phone.”  
  
“Goddammit, Sam!” Dean knows Sam’s been sick and all, but is he really that dumb? And at the same time, his brain’s still stuttering over the word _intubation_ , Sam said it like he might say _breakfast_ or _shower_ , but he didn’t have to watch the goddamn machine that was the only thing keeping his brother alive. “What part of _you’ll die if you come near me_ don’t you understand?”  
  
“The part where you don’t want to try and fix it,” Sam says, and he’s trying to yell but he sounds out of breath and scratchy. “For Christ’s sake, man, just tell me where you are.”  
  
“No,” says Dean. “No way.” And to be honest, he’s not entirely sure where he is, doesn’t even really remember how he got here from the witch’s house with Joshua’s words still ringing in his ears.  
  
Sam’s quiet for a moment, then he says “OK, fine,” and Dean hears the sound of an engine starting up.   
  
“What’s that?” he asks, which is dumb, because he’d know the roar of the Impala anywhere, but Sam just freakin _said_ no heavy machinery and Dean’s gonna fucking kill him ( _except he might, he actually goddamn might_ ).  
  
“You think I can’t find you?” Sam says. “I’m not letting you run away from this, man.”  
  
“Fuck,” says Dean, sitting up and running a hand through his hair, and suddenly all his muscles seem to be working again, like Sam being an asshole is what powers them or something, and Dean has the sudden vision of anger ( _worry_ ) crackling through his veins instead of blood and thinks that would explain a hell of a lot. “Do _not_ drive the car, Sam, or I swear to God I’ll come right down there and make you regret it.”  
  
Sam doesn’t answer for a second, and Dean can hear from the sound of the engine that he hasn’t pulled out yet. “So come,” he says finally, and hangs up on Dean for the second time that day.  
  
Dean runs through his entire inventory of curses, invents a couple of new ones, vaguely recalls from six months spent in Texas that _chinga tu madre_ means something obscene in Spanish, and hauls ass outside to find out where the hell he is.  
  
\----  
  
Turns out he’s in the same town as Sam, which is weird because the witch lives six hours away, and also, he discovers when he passes a newstand, it’s actually tomorrow. Or, you know, it’s the day after he thought it was. Which makes himwonder what the hell he’s been doing for the last twenty-four hours, but whatever it was, he’s still got all the cash and condoms he had in his wallet when he left the witch’s house, so it doesn’t look like he missed out on anything fun. When he gets to the hospital parking lot, Sam’s in the driver’s seat of the Impala with his eyes shut, and Dean thinks he’s asleep, wonders how to wake him up without getting anywhere near him, thinks about phoning him (Jesus Christ, _phoning_ him, he’s right _there_ ), and then Sam suddenly opens his eyes and starts getting out of the car.  
  
Dean backs away hurriedly. He has no idea what the range of the curse is, but he can’t forget the way Sam looked when he wasn’t breathing, and he doesn’t want to see that again ever. Sam clings onto the car door. He looks like shit, face pale and tight, like his skin’s too thin and brittle. He eyes Dean and says, “You look like crap.”  
  
Dean laughs in amazement. “You ever try looking in a mirror? You’re not exactly Brad Pitt yourself.”  
  
Sam sort of grins. “Well, shoot, guess I need to fire my stylist,” he says.  
  
Dean’s about ready to grin back, but then Sam sways slightly and that’s enough to wipe the smile right off his face. In fact, it’s enough to rip it off his face, chop it into tiny pieces, and then jump on them, but, you know, Sam always did tend towards overkill.  
  
Sam sighs. “So you gonna get in the car or what?”  
  
Dean shakes his head slowly. “You know I can’t.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes. “Listen, doofus, my temperature’s normal, I’m just a little tired, is all. Last time it took hours for it to get up to dangerous levels, so driving me to a damn motel isn’t going to be a problem, OK?”  
  
Dean chews his lip, because Sam’s right, and he’s not sure what other options they have right now. He needs to work it out, needs to find a solution to this, because now that he’s back with Sam, he’s pretty sure that just accepting their fate isn’t going to do it for him (and it’s not like he’s really an _accepting fate_ kinda guy, anyway, right?) But for right now, he needs to get Sam sitting down before he falls down. “OK,” he says.  
  
Sam grins in relief, and starts sliding into the passenger seat. “Hey,” Dean calls (because he’s still standing a good thirty feet away, and this is kind of weird, he feels like he’s in a surrealist play or something). “In the back,” he says as Sam looks up.  
  
Sam scowls, but Dean’s not having this argument. “You’re lucky I’m not making you ride in the trunk,” he says, or, you know, shouts, which kind of takes off some of the impact, but it’s not like he’s gonna win any prizes for that bit of banter anyway. He holds Sam’s gaze, and finally Sam shrugs and clambers into the back seat.  
  
\----  
  
The drive to the motel that Dean seems to have a room at is only about ten minutes, and Sam seems fine, or at least no worse than he did when Dean arrived, but it doesn’t stop Dean’s stomach twisting like he’s eaten something he really shouldn’t have (like, you know, shrimp. Dean fucking hates shrimp). When they get there, he’s out of the car practically before the engine’s shut off, and back to the whole thirty feet thing. Sam’s slower, but he makes it OK and stands, leaning against the Impala. Dean tosses him the room key, and Sam makes a grab for it and overbalances, almost falls, and Dean’s darting forward to catch him before he can think, pulls himself up short so fast he’s surprised his boots don’t leave skid marks on the asphalt. Sam rights himself, takes a long look at Dean, and just before Dean’s about to start backing away, he lunges forward and grabs Dean’s wrist.  
  
“Shit!” says Dean, trying to drag Sam’s hand off him. “What the hell, Jesus!”  
  
“Did you actually listen to what Joshua said?” Sam asks, and his fingers are like fucking _steel_ , which is so unfair because Sam’s supposed to be _sick_ dammit and Dean’s always been really kind of pissed off by the way Sam can just lock those freakishly long fingers round anything and not let go.   
  
“Get off me,” Dean says, and he wants to push on Sam’s chest, try and push him away, but that would be even more contact so he settles for twisting his wrist, trying to wrench it out of Sam’s grip.   
  
“No,” says Sam. “Not until you tell me that you _listened_.”  
  
Oh, that’s it, Dean’s good and pissed now. “Of course I freakin _listened_ , Sam!” he yells. “I listened right up to the point where he said I’d have to fucking _kill_ you, and then, you know, I figured I’d heard that one before.”  
  
“Jesus,” Sam says, running his hand over his face. “You didn’t think you should maybe listen to the rest of it?”  
  
Dean’s going to punch Sam, and it’s going to serve him the hell right for being a goddamn _asshole_ , and is it Dean’s imagination or is Sam starting to breathe faster? Dean closes his eyes against the memory of Sam gasping and crying in the freezing water and twists his wrist as hard as he can. “If you don’t get the fuck off me...” he starts, and Sam spins himround suddenly so his back is against the car and Sam’s got his other hand on Dean’s shoulder and _fuck_ , his hand is warm, is it warmer than it should be?  
  
“No, you _listen_ ,” says Sam. “And don’t interrupt because the longer I have to talk for, the longer I’m going to be this close to you.”  
  
Dean opens his eyes, and he doesn’t think he’s _ever_ been this pissed at Sam before, but Sam doesn’t flinch back, he just stands there, face mutinous. “You don’t get to decide everything,” he says, and Dean shakes his head.  
  
“Just fucking say what you’ve got to say,” he says.  
  
Sam looks unsure for just a second, then tightens his grip on Dean’s wrist. “Joshua says it’s not just the fever that’s dangerous, that there’s a build-up of mystical energy--” he pauses as Dean snorts (because no matter how many times he hears it, _mystical energy_ still makes him think of people who bathe in patchouli oil and talk about _auras_ ), but Dean doesn’t interrupt so Sam carries on. “Anyway, the only way to break the spell is to bring it to its natural conclusion... To kill me,” he says the last part fast, like he’s hoping Dean won’t notice, and carries straight on. “But if the mystical energy does the job before the fever, then my body won’t be damaged, and all you need to do is resuscitate me and I’ll be OK,” he gabbles, like he’s been practising.  
  
Dean’s pretty much speechless, because OK, it’s not the first time someone’s asked him to kill Sam (hell, it’s not even the first time _Sam’s_ asked him to kill Sam), and he’s getting pretty sick of it as it is, but _this_ , this is just too much. “You done?” he says, moving to try and push Sam away, but Sam shakes his head.  
  
“No, look,” he says, “normally the fever’s the most dangerous thing, anything over one-oh-seven-point-six for too long and it can cause organ damage--” and there’s that phrase again, and Dean’s pretty sure he’s either going to be throwing up or throwing a punch any goddamn minute “--but if we can get to an area of mystical convergence, the energy will build up way faster until it overloads, and then it’ll dissipate once the spell’s broken. Dean,” he says, and Dean realises he’s not even paying attention any more, he’s still on the _organ damage_ and _resuscitation_ and all of the things that could go wrong and all of the things that have _already_ gone wrong and the fact that Sam’s the only thing he’s got left and he can never be near him again, that he’s standing right here with Sam closer than he’ll probably ever get again and all he can think about is how to get away.  
  
Sam’s face softens. “Look, man, I know it’s scary. It’s a risk. But you’re my brother, OK? I’m not leaving you. And I’m not letting you leave me.”  
  
It hurts, like Sam’s just ripped the skin off the inside of Dean’s throat. _Letting you leave me_. Dean needs to make sure Sam doesn’t die, he needs to _save_ Sam, and Sam’s going to think of it as Dean _leaving_ him? “Fuck you,” he croaks, and pushes Sam away, and Sam lets go this time, staggers back ( _oh Jesus, he’s sweating_ ), and Dean’s moving as fast as he can, not looking back.  
  
Half an hour later, his cell rings, and it’s Sam, of course.  
  
“I booked you another room,” he says, and he sounds exhausted, and Dean can’t help but think it serves him goddamn right. “It’s at the other end of the motel from mine, should be OK.”  
  
Dean grunts, but he’s already on his feet and heading back to the motel, which fucking sucks, stupid goddamn body. “We’re not doing this, Sam,” he says.  
  
“Whatever,” says Sam, and Dean knows he hasn’t given up. “If I wake up and you’ve bailed on me, I’m hunting you down and hugging you.”  
  
Dean feels the corners of his mouth twitch ( _stupid goddamn mouth_ ), and says “No, please, anything but that.” And it’s weird, because the threat is serious, given their situation, and he still has no idea how to fix it, has no idea what he’s going to do with the rest of his life if it’s unfixable, but somehow, with Sam awake and ready to back him up (even if it is from way, way back), the whole thing doesn’t seem quite so hopeless. He doesn’t even remember where he was this morning, what he was doing, and OK, he doesn’t really know what he’s doing now, but he knows what he is. He’s a brother, and he’s not letting some goddamn extra from _The Craft_ take that away from him without a fight.


	4. Chapter 4

So Dean’s not really sure how it happened, but he distinctly remembers there being alcohol involved (left on his freakin doorstep, God, Sam is such a bastard sometimes), and a phone call in which Sam may have said something about needing Dean to save him and how could he do that if he couldn’t even touch him, and Dean’s pretty sure that if the phone call actually happened then he was pretty fucking wasted, but whether it happened or not he’s _damn_ sure it’s Sam’s fault that he’s currently trying to figure out the quickest route to the nearest site of mystical convergence, which, as it turns out, is about seven hundred miles away (and damn if you can’t find pretty much anything on the internet these days). The map’s kinda blurry, because Dean’s head is pounding like crazy, and when he recovers he’s gonna kick Sam’s ass into the middle of next week. No, make that next month. ( _Except he’s not gonna kick Sam’s ass at all, he’s not going anywhere near Sam, because for all Sam’s a gigantic jackass, Dean’s still pretty sure he doesn’t want him to die._ )  
  
The phone rings, and Dean makes a pathetic attempt at cursing, but his mouth feels like he’s been chewing a plushie (God, he hates plushies), so it comes out kind of lame. He answers the phone just to stop the damn thing making _noise_ , but unfortunately Sam’s on the other end, and he’s pretty damn good at making noise, too, and while the phone’s noise is like _whine whine whine_ , Sam’s is more like _hi Dean, how ya doing? By the way, you gonna kill me today? Because that would be awesome._ (And also _whine whine whine_ , so, you know, worst of both worlds.)  
  
“How’re you feeling?” says Sam, and Dean snorts and then stops, because hey, turns out that hurts his head too.  
  
“Aren’t I supposed to ask you that?” he says, and grimaces at the way his voice sounds (because it kind of sounds like he’s been chewing a plushie, and damn if Dean isn’t totally over that metaphor by now).  
  
Sam makes a noise that Dean thinks is probably a stifled snicker ( _bastard_ ), and says, “Little shaky still, but generally good. You work out a route yet?”  
  
Goddamn, Dean is going to kill Sam ( _goddamn, Dean is going to_ kill _Sam_ ). “Why do I gotta do everything?” he grumbles, and OK, so maybe he’s whining just a little, but he feels like crap and it’s Sam’s fault and he can’t see the freakin map and he’s plotting a route to a site of mystical convergence so that he can _kill_ Sam and his head’s pounding like crazy and goddamn Sam is a freakin _asshole_.   
  
“I found the site,” Sam points out. “But, you know, I’ll do the route too, if you want. I just need to get a map.”   
  
Dean snarls, because the last thing he wants is for Sam to be _reasonable_ about this. “No, I’m doing it,” he says. “Just you freakin... Just stay where you are, OK?”  
  
“OK,” Sam says, and he’s being way too gentle, like it’s _Dean_ who’s sick. God, what an asshole.   
  
“OK,” Dean says, and cuts off the call, then bends over the map again. Green is such a bad colour for maps. He can’t see a goddamn thing.   
  
Eventually, he pillows his head on his arms and closes his eyes and hopes that if he can just wish it hard enough, none of this will ever have happened.  
  
\----  
  
The first time, Dean’s driving with his jaw clenched so tight he thinks he’s gonna end up losing some teeth, and Sam starts shivering, and Dean practically sets a new land-speed record getting off the road and out of the car. His phone rings when he’s about two hundred yards into the scrubby almost-forest crap by the side of the road (seriously, can’t the goddamn vegetation just make up its mind already?) and Sam’s saying _I think you can probably stop before you get to the next state_ , because, you know, Sam’s an _asshole_. Dean does stop, though (because he runs into a river, OK?), and an hour later Sam calls him again and tells him he’s feeling better. Dean ignores him. He goes back to the car two hours after that, and Sam is pissed and bitchy, but he’s _Sam_ , so Dean has no idea if that means he’s sick or not. His temperature’s normal, though (Dean won’t get into the car until he sees the thermometer, which Sam holds out of the window while rolling his eyes), so they get going again.  
  
The second time, Sam’s sleeping, and Dean’s paying attention, God, he’s paying more attention to Sam than he is to the goddamn road, but it comes on quicker than last time, and it’s not until Sam starts muttering something about penguins (seriously, the amount of crap they’ve seen and Sam has hallucinations about _penguins_ ) that Dean realises. Lucky the Impala’s just been serviced, because Dean doesn’t think he’s ever slammed the brakes on so hard, and OK, maybe he made Sam fall off the back seat, but Sam’s a freakin asshole and he totally deserved it.   
  
After that, Dean makes Sam talk, because he figures that’s the best early-warning system. Sam’s kind of self-conscious about it at first, and keeps running out of things to talk about, but after a while he gets used to it, and when he’s explaining the difference between common law and Roman law or the inner workings of the digestive system and starts stuttering or repeating himself, Dean knows it’s time to stop. Of course, that means Dean actually has to pay enough attention to what Sam’s saying to catch the stuttering and repetition, and Jesus, it’s fucking hard work. He never realised how much he doesn’t listen to Sam until now (but, you know, Sam just says a lot of boring shit, and he figures if there’s anything important Sam’ll tell him again, so it’s not like he doesn’t have a good _reason_ for not listening), and OK, if this was a movie or whatever then Dean would totally realise that actually his brother’s really interesting and come out of the whole experience being enlightened and educated or whatever, but it’s not, and Dean’s just bored and pissed off ( _and terrified_ ). After a few experiments, though, they figure out that they can go about two hours with Dean in the front and Sam in the back before Sam starts to lose it (and OK, Dean’s definition of Sam _losing it_ is kind of different to Sam’s, but Sam’s an idiot, so whatever), and then Sam needs a couple of hours to recover properly before they go again. So Dean spends half his time bored shitless listening to Sam talk crap in the car, and the other half bored shitless sitting on his own in fields and woods and places that can’t make up their goddamn minds what the hell they are. So yeah, seven hundred miles? Actually a really freakin long way.  
  
The real problem, though (OK, so the real problem _apart_ from the whole _Dean can’t get near Sam without him turning into a goddamn space heater_ thing), is that by the time they’ve been going for a day and a half, Sam’s starting to space out after an hour and only getting it together again after three. Dean has no idea if it’s like a residual build-up thing from too much contact, or if the curse is designed to get more severe with time, but whatever it is, it sucks worse than an Avril Lavigne album, and by the end of the second day Sam’s temperature isn’t quite making it to normal any more and Dean’s not sure he can bear the exhausted look in his brother’s eyes for much longer.  
  
“This is fucked up,” he says, and Sam sighs on the other end of the line. They’re in separate motels this time – Sam bitched a little about it, but Dean wasn’t taking any chances (and actually, Dean thinks maybe Sam bitched less than usual and that makes his stomach twist in a way that really makes him glad he hasn’t eaten much for the last few days), and they’re only just over half-way to the goddamn centre of fucking mystical bastard convergence (and why the hell is it so far away, anyway? Jesus, with the amount of supernatural crap they run into all the freakin time, you’d think mystics or whatever converged all _over_ the goddamn place, but no, apparently the little bastards are really goddamn picky), and Dean’s about ready to give up on the whole deal and go and live in a cave or something (or, you know, whatever it is that people do when their lives are so fucked up that there’s no way back. It doesn’t _have_ to be a cave, but Dean vaguely remembers that that’s like the done thing or whatever).  
  
“We’ve just got to make it another three hundred miles,” Sam says. “We can do that in our sleep.”  
  
“Fuck that,” Dean says. “We _used_ to be able to do it in our sleep, before you turned into a goddamn Death Ray.”  
  
“Death Ray? Dude, lame,” says Sam. “You could at least have said space heater or something.”  
  
Dean ignores him (yeah, OK, so sometimes he repeats himself, but he’s got _some_ pride about overusing metaphors) and stares at the map. “Your temperature back to normal yet?”  
  
He can almost hear Sam shrug. “Yeah.”  
  
“Really?”  
  
There’s an uncomfortable pause. “It’s only half a degree above,” says Sam finally. “That could be anything.”  
  
That’s it. Sam’s been on the other side of town from him for five hours, and that’s fucking _it_. “OK, no more,” he says, trying to sound commanding and not like he’s a desperate fuck-up who’s giving up the only thing he has left at all. “This plan sucks. We’re not doing it.”  
  
“Dean,” says Sam, and he sounds like he can’t quite decide whether to go for _moral outrage_ or _mournful puppy_ for his latest attempt to get his own way, but Dean’s not listening to either, because he can’t afford to let Sam win this one, he just _can’t_. He disconnects the call and shuts off his phone, feeling like an asshole ( _feeling like a lost cause_ ), then spends about ten minutes feeling sorry for himself until he remembers that Sam knows what motel he’s checked into. Then he checks out, drops the keys and the Impala round at Sam’s motel (he’s not gonna need a dream machine when he’s living in a cave, right? He figures caves don’t have on-street parking, anyway), and hotwires a truck he finds two streets over.  
  
He’s wondering where the best place to find caves is anyway (seriously, is there like some kind of search engine for that? _Caves and Gardens_ magazine? He figures there are enough losers in the US to warrant at least a chat room) when he checks his phone and finds that he has seven missed calls and a text message. Figures. He flips through to his inbox.  
  
 _Dean, come on. We can do this._  
  
Dean drops the phone on the seat beside him and sets his jaw. He drives for thirty miles, finds himself another motel, and he’s half-way through his second six-pack by the time his hands have stopped shaking enough to text Sam back.  
  
 _No._  
  
And that’s it, one freakin word, not even long enough to spell it wrong. One word, and it’s pretty fucking anticlimactic, but right now Dean doesn’t have it in him to care.  
  
The phone rings five minutes later, but Dean doesn’t answer. It rings a few more times, then finally a text comes through, and even the goddamn message tone sounds exasperated. Dean almost doesn’t check it ( _what’s the freakin point?_ ), but it’s _Sam_ , and he’s numb, he feels like maybe he’ll never get the feeling back in his fingers, but it’s still Sam, so he picks up the phone and reads it.   
  
_You’re an asshole_ , says the message, and Dean thinks it’s probably got a point. A second later, another one comes through.  
  
 _I’m not getting better._  
  
Dean stares at this one and feels the numbness spreading. He tries to think, but alcohol and panic are clouding his mind (because obviously, usually he has the mental capacity of freakin Einstein), and all he can think is _fuck, did I do this, did I make it so Sam can’t get better?_  
  
The phone beeps again just as Dean is contemplating having a full-on panic attack (except it would totally be, like, a manly breakdown or something, none of that fainting shit), and he can barely see the screen, the letters blurring against the grey.  
  
 _Stop blaming yourself. We can still fix this._  
  
Dean stares, and it’s like Sam’s right there in the room, he can hear the words in his head like Sam just said them. He swallows and forces himself to calm down, breathe in, breathe out, _we can still fix this._ After a minute, he’s under control enough to text back.  
  
 _I can’t drive you._  
  
He waits, chewing his lip, waits for Sam to tell him what to do because fuck, he _can’t_ work it out by himself, whatever it is that runs his brain has gone on vacation without warning, and when it gets back, Dean’s gonna have some serious things to say about personal responsibility.  
  
Finally, the phone beeps, and Dean realises he’s been holding his breath and lets it out so fast it makes his head spin. He stares at the screen.  
  
 _Fine, jackass. Meet me there in two days. Bring pizza._  
  
And OK, so Dean’s kind of set his heart on the whole cave thing, figures he can get a nice roomy bachelor cave with cable and maybe space for a foosball table, but on the other hand, Sam may be an asshole who knows way too much about lame boring shit, but Dean figures he could do with someone like that around to make him look even cooler, and it would be a shame to have to find a new guy to fit the bill when he’s got Sammy all trained up and everything. So yeah, OK, maybe the plan isn’t totally shot to hell, and the light-headedness that Dean’s feeling is probably just because he’s had too much to drink and too little sleep. He can do this. They can do this.  
  
Dean’s definitely thinking he needs to switch rides first, though.  
  
\----  
  
Sam’s leaning against the side of the Impala like he’s been there for hours when Dean rolls up, and he stares in disbelief as Dean parks a decent distance away and jumps out.   
  
“Jesus Christ,” he calls. “You stole an ambulance?”  
  
Dean grins with pride and slaps the side of his ride. “Pretty awesome, huh?” he says. “Figured if I was gonna be resuscitating and shit, might as well look the part.”  
  
Sam raises his eyebrows. “Anyone ever tell you you’re kind of a drama queen?”  
  
“Well hey, it’s not like I’m cursed to bring certain death to my brother or anything,” Dean says. “Oh, wait...”  
  
Sam mutters something that might be _jerk_ , and steps away from the car, staggering slightly. Dean practically bites through his tongue stopping himself from jumping forward (goddamn, he never knew he was this much of a mother hen, or, you know, damn, there’s gotta be a more macho sounding phrase that means the same thing, right?), and surreptitiously kicks the side of the ambulance. “You OK?” he calls.  
  
Sam’s standing straighter now, but he looks kinda pale. “Yeah,” he says, “but I think there’s something new going on with this whole curse thing. I’m not sure...” he closes his eyes and sways slightly. “Let’s just get this done.”  
  
“OK,” says Dean ( _but it’s not OK, it’s not freakin OK at_ all). “Just let me talk to my buddy Manny.” He goes for the back of the ambulance, and then Sam’s right freakin _there_ , grabbing him by the arm and staring at him like he’s totally deranged (and OK, maybe he’s a _little_ deranged, but Sam already knows that so there’s no call for that level of shock).  
  
“Dude,” says Sam, staring into the ambulance. “You kidnapped a paramedic?”  
  
Dean peers in at Manny, who’s looking a little freaked out over the top of the gag. It occurs to him that probably, faced with the same problem, Sam wouldn’t have tied up a health worker and taken him over state lines. On the other hand, he’s already pretty much established that Sam’s an idiot, so. “Yeah,” he says. “A little.”  
  
“A _little_?” Sam says, and he’s practically _squeaking_ now. “How do you kidnap someone a _little_?”  
  
Dean raises his eyebrows, but then Sam sways again and catches himself on the side of the ambulance, and Dean realises they’re standing in a fucking centre of mystical whatever, and now is so not the time to be having this argument.  
  
“Let’s get you sitting down,” he says, trying to haul Sam bodily into the ambulance, but Sam shakes his head.  
  
“We’re not in the right place,” he says. “We need to be where the ley-lines intersect or the energy won’t build up fast enough.”  
  
“God,” Dean runs his hands through his hair, and Sam’s leaning on him now, not heavily, just enough to make Dean’s stomach flutter unpleasantly. “Where, then?”  
  
Sam looks around, and then points to a pond a hundred yards away. “There,” he says.  
  
Dean stares. “You have _got_ to be kidding me.” There’s no way he can drive the ambulance into the pond. Sometimes, Dean thinks maybe there’s someone up in Heaven or wherever whose job title is _person whose job it is to fuck Dean’s life up in as many ways as they possibly can_. Except, you know, they’d abbreviate it on the business cards or whatever.  
  
“Just,” Sam shakes his head. “It’s not far, we’ll just, you can just bring me back here when we’re done.”   
  
“Easy for you to say,” Dean says. “You won’t be the one hauling your heavy ass around.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes and glances in the back of the ambulance. “Sorry about my brother,” he says to Manny. “He’s kind of an asshole.”  
  
“Hey!” Dean says, because hell if he’s letting Sam talk smack about him to Manny, but Sam’s ignoring him ( _bastard_ ) and is already heading (kind of lurching, really) towards the pond, and Dean’s following, because what the hell else is there to do?  
  
Sam reaches the pond and starts wading in, and Dean’s there a couple of seconds behind him. The ground’s sludgy and sucks at his feet (and Sam is so cleaning his boots when this is done), and the water’s freezing, but he figures at least that’ll help retard the fever. Sam reaches the middle and it’s up to his knees, and when Dean gets there he’s looking expectant.  
  
“What?” says Dean.  
  
Sam sighs. “Contact increases the power of the spell,” he says.  
  
“Contact?” Dean asks, and Sam rolls his eyes and throws his arms around him, and _fuck_ , Sam’s right _there_ , and Dean has to fight not to push him away, to remind himself that this is what’s supposed to happen, but he flinches back anyway, holds himself rigid and tries not to feel the heat of Sam’s skin.  
  
“Jeez, Dean,” Sam says, “never took you for the prim and proper type.”  
  
“Hey,” Dean says, “I’m only being a gentleman. You know, I’m not used to dating girls who are quite as... forward as you.”  
  
Sam rolls his eyes, but it’s OK, because Dean kind of feels better now (or if not _better_ then at least not quite as awkward), and he swallows and thinks about how they need to do this as quickly as possible so the fever doesn’t get a chance to build up, and puts a hand on the bare skin of Sam’s neck. Sam’s skin is definitely warmer than it should be, but not too warm, and Dean’s relieved, but he has no idea how long they’re going to have to stand here (in a freakin pond, seriously, when Dean hears _mystical convergence_ he thinks unicorns and freakin sparkly lights or whatever, not stagnant water and frogspawn) or how he’s going to be able to tell if the mystical energy is building up at all. He blinks at Sam, and Sam blinks back, still wrapped around him like a goddamn bandage, and nothing happens.  
  
“Well,” says Sam after a minute. “This is kinda weird.”  
  
“Yeah,” says Dean. His ankles are freakin cold. In the next field, there’s this cow that’s kinda staring at them, and he scowls at it over Sam’s shoulder, but really, it’s got a point; he’s pretty sure they look like idiots.  
  
“You sure you gotta hug me?” he says finally, and Sam blows out a breath and grins.  
  
\----  
  
They’ve been standing around ( _like idiots_ ) for over an hour when it starts to rain, and seriously, as if they didn’t have enough problems. If Dean ever gets to Heaven, he’s totally finding the guy with the job and kicking his ass. OK, so maybe the guy’s an angel – and hey, what’s the corporate structure of Heaven like, anyway? Is everyone who’s actually on the payroll an angel, or is it something you can get promoted to from your basic dead-soul grade? -- but he’s pretty sure he could kick angel ass if he really needed to.  
  
“You feeling any different?” he says to Sam, and Sam peers down at him, water dripping from the ends of his bangs.  
  
“Feel wetter than I did before,” he says, and shakes his head like a dog.  
  
“Dude,” says Dean in disgust, but the rain bothers him, because he can’t tell how much Sam’s sweating any more. What he does know is that Sam’s neck is a lot warmer than it was when they started, and that so far, he’s seen precisely zero sign of any goddamn mystical energy (although, given the whole stagnant-pond deal, for all he knows the freezing rain is the mystical energy), and he’s wondering what the hell he’s going to do if this goes wrong.  
  
“We should,” Sam says, and shifts his weight, and wow, actually he’s kinda leaning on Dean pretty hard now. “We should, Dean, I think maybe we should sit down.”  
  
Dean would say something about how sitting down in two feet of scummy water is a really fucking dumb idea, but he can see the way the colour’s draining out of Sam’s face, making his cheeks look even more flushed, and he shuts his mouth for once in his life and carefully lowers them both to the ground (or, you know, the water). He grimaces as the water seeps into his clothes (OK, so Sam’s totally doing all the laundry too when this is over, because Dean _knows_ what pond water smells like when it’s dried in, and it’s not freakin Yves Saint whatever, that’s for damn sure) and tries to rearrange himself so that he’s supporting Sam (because there’s no way there’s gonna be a repeat of the whole bathtub thing, no chance in freakin _hell_ ).  
  
“You know,” he says, “this was an awesome idea. I love vacationing in the country.”  
  
Sam snorts. “You love vacationing in biker bars.”  
  
“What can I say? I find them charming,” Dean says, and Sam shifts restlessly, sending ripples through the dull brown surface of the water (that looks pretty much like liquid sh– oh, OK, Dean’s crude, but he’s gonna try not to think that while he’s sitting in the goddamn stuff) and says something too low for Dean to hear.  
  
“What?” Dean asks.  
  
“Cold,” Sam says, and he’s shivering now, just a little, and Dean scowls because he has no idea if that’s the fever or the fact that they’re sitting in a pond in the rain, but Sam’s eyes are half-closed and Dean thinks he hates this pretty much more than anything ever.  
  
It doesn’t take too long before he finds out that actually, there’s some shit he hates more (and hey, turns out he has a pretty huge capacity for hating stuff, but then, everyone’s gotta have a talent, right?) For example, right now, he really hates the way Sam’s body is sinking lower in the water, until it’s all Dean can do just to hold onto him, and also, he hates that it’s the goddamn holding on that’s causing the problem in the first place. His brain is completely fucked, because half of it’s telling him to cling onto Sam and never let go, and the other half’s telling him to get as far away as possible, because Sam’s burning up, Sam’s sinking and it’s Dean that’s doing it, and that can’t be right, that’s not how it’s meant to _be_.   
  
Both halves of his brain are wrong, though. Being close to Sam is fucking him up, but it’s all that Dean can do, because whether it’s his fault or not, there’s no going back now. It’s the biggest fucking kick in the pants Dean’s ever had, and man, he’s had some doozies.   
  
“Hey,” says Sam. His eyes are still hooded, but he’s looking at Dean. “If this doesn’t... Look, none of this is your fault, OK?”  
  
Dean barks out a laugh. “Does this look like a good time for a heart-to-heart to you, Sammy?”  
  
Sam’s eyes slide around a little, taking in the scene. It’s raining harder now, the droplets battering the surface of the pond. “Well,” he says slowly, “you know, it’s missing the swelling violins, but otherwise, I think it’s pretty much perfect.”  
  
Dean rolls his eyes, and Sam grins weakly and says, “We should get away from the fire, first, though.”  
  
Yeah, funny how much colder freezing cold water can suddenly feel. “What?” Dean asks, and Sam looks up at him.  
  
“It’s too hot,” he says. “We’ll burn. I don’t want to burn, Dean.”   
  
He says it calmly, like it’s freakin obvious, but Dean’s sitting in two feet of water and there’s more coming out of the sky and there’s no _fire_.  
  
“Sam,” he says, but really he has no idea what to do right now. Should he humour Sam, or should he try and bring him back to reality? Is it the mystical energy that’s fucking his brain up or the fever? And how, how is it that Dean’s sitting here willingly making them both worse?  
  
Sam grabs his arm suddenly, and even through his sodden shirt sleeve Dean can feel the heat, it’s way more than it was a moment ago. “Dean,” he says urgently. “The fire. You’ve got to go before it gets you.”  
  
“It’s not gonna get me, Sammy,” Dean says, using his other hand to push Sam’s dripping bangs out of his eyes. Sam’s forehead is soaking wet and radiating like a fucking hot plate. “I’m gonna be just fine.”  
  
“No,” Sam moans, shaking his head, and his eyes are rolling now, it’s unsettling ( _fuck_ unsettling _, it’s a fucking nightmare, is what it is_ ), like some monster from a bad B-movie, and he’s pawing at Dean’s sleeve. “I don’t want – Dean, I want you to live, I don’t want it to get you, it’s burning, God, please, just get away.”  
  
Dean’s staring now, because he stood around waiting for hours, and now everything’s happening too fast, like the world’s been saving up its energy so it can kick him in the face extra hard, and goddamn, he would pretty much give anything to have the penguins back right now. “We’ll be fine,” he says, and he’s got one arm around Sam’s torso, Sam’s back resting on his chest and Sam’s head under his chin, he’s wrapped around Sam pretty much as close as he can be, but it’s not enough, it’s not freakin _enough_. “It’s OK, I gotcha, nothing’s gonna happen.”  
  
Sam’s head snaps round, then, and he looks straight into Dean’s eyes. “I’m going to burn,” he says, serious and solemn like he wants to make sure Dean understands. “You can’t save me, but you can save _you_. _I_ can save you, Dean. Please.”  
  
Dean feels himself snarl, and it’s not like he’s doing it on purpose, OK, so, obviously snarling is a useful skill and all, but right now it’s probably not the best response to the situation. All the same, there it is, and this is so _fucked up_ , and Sam’s fucking sitting there telling him to go and it’s just like the motel room ( _Sam was possessed_ ), just like the creepy old hotel ( _Sam was drunk_ ), just like the hospital ( _Dad’s got no freakin excuse_ ). “Shut the hell up, Sam,” he says ( _I’m gonna save you whether you like it or not_ ), and thankfully Sam chooses that moment to obey orders for once in his life, and passes out.  
  
So now all Dean’s gotta do is stop Sam from slipping under the water and pay attention for the moment when his brother ( _dies_ ) stops breathing. And hey, that’s a pretty easy job, and OK, so Sam’s big and all, freakin yeti is what, but he’s lost some weight in the last week (Dean’s not thinking about that) and he’s pretty much dead to the or actually out cold is probably a better phrase, so he’s easy enough to manhandle. Only problem is, now that Dean’s not busy concentrating on Sam’s yapping, he’s got nothing to think about except the fact that he’s sitting here killing his brother by degrees and he’s not even a hundred per cent sure that this is going to work. And if he’s honest with himself, he’s not sure how he ended up here, why he agreed to it, or even what the hell he’s been thinking since Sam got sick (except he hasn’t been thinking at all), and he can’t really believe that Dad left this all up to him, that he left Dean in charge, because Dean’s about as good at making sure things run smoothly as David Hasselhoff is at acting, but he doesn’t even have the singing career in Germany to fall back on.  
  
Sam shudders and moans, thrashing in Dean’s arms, which is just _awesome_ because now Dean’s trying to cling on to six foot twenty-five of slippery, messed-up brother and it’s all he can do not to just let go and run, all he can do not to tighten his grip until it’s enough to break Sam’s ribs. He feels bone-tired, and it seems wrong, that it should be like this, so quiet and slow, the only sound the drumming of the rain on the surface of the water, loud enough to drown out the beat of blood in his ears. He wants there to be earthquakes and meteor showers, or at least an ominous voice from on high or, you know, a black-cloaked figure or some such shit, but all there is is Sam dying in his arms in a muddy pond in the rain, and Dean never wanted death, certainly never even entertained the prospect that Sam might die ( _not possible_ ), but if he had, he would never have imagined it could be like this.  
  
Sam stiffens suddenly, starts to twitch, and that’s all the warning Dean gets before he’s convulsing in a full-blown seizure, Dean’s too hot now even from just being near him and this is the third time, the third fucking seizure that Dean’s had to watch and not be able to do anything about, and he can feel Sam’s heart hammering against his ribs, his head rolls back and smacks against Dean’s chest with every jerk and the only thing Dean can do is cling grimly on and stop Sam from slipping under, and even now it’s so fucking _quiet_.  
  
Sam’s been seizing for maybe four minutes ( _Dean can’t do this, he can’t_ ) and Dean’s just beginning to think that the mystical fucking bastard energy isn’t doing what it’s meant to be doing ( _killing Sam_ ) because the fever’s so high, it’s so goddamn _high_ and this isn’t supposed to be the way it goes, it’s supposed to be painless ( _and Sam’s not supposed to die_ ), when Sam suddenly stops, just like that, his body going limp in Dean’s grasp. Dean has just a moment, just one fucking _second_ of relief before he becomes aware of the fact that he can’t feel Sam’s heartbeat any more. And OK, so there’s no way he can go through this again and really he ought to stop and make sure ( _make sure his brother is dead_ ), but fuck that, _fuck_ it, and Dean’s struggling to his feet, hauling Sam’s body out of the water and staggering through the sludge dragging him, not even stopping to get him in a proper hold, because he thinks if he unlocks his arms from around Sam’s ribcage maybe whatever it is that’s holding Sam inside his body now that it’s not his heart and lungs will let go too.  
  
The trip back to the ambulance is five miles, ten, goddamn, further than Dean’s ever walked in his life, how could it be so _far_? It’s really fucking pouring now, and Dean’s boots are full of water, Sam’s heels are dragging along the ground, and if Dean can’t see, if the world’s gone out of focus, it’s because there’s rain in his eyes. But finally, _finally_ it’s there, the goddamn ambulance huge and white and blurred, and Dean’s going to be OK, he’s going to make it, everything’s going to be fine.  
  
Except Dean’s utterly, utterly fucked, because the ambulance is empty. Manny is gone, and Dean leans against the side of the ambulance, trying to stop Sam from slipping, but his fingers are going numb and Sam’s like a ( _dead weight_ ) lump of lead in his arms and he can’t see anything but sodden grass and driving rain and no fucking paramedic.  
  
There’s no time to think about it, no _time_ , because Sam’s not breathing and Dean needs to fix that _right now_. He climbs backwards into the back of the ambulance, dragging Sam up onto the gurney that’s waiting there, and closes his eyes for just a second, breathes through his nose, because he’s been preparing for this moment all day and it’s here and he’s _fucked_ , Manny is gone, but he still needs to save Sam and he can’t afford to panic, not now.  
  
When he opens his eyes, Sam’s lying pale and still on the gurney, his hair plastered down against his forehead and the flush rapidly fading from his cheeks, and he looks worse than he did before ( _when he was alive_ ), but Dean’s not thinking about that, he’s pumping his hands on Sam’s chest and then breathing into Sam’s mouth, and while he’s breathing, feeling how warm Sam’s lips are even now, his hand is fumbling for the defibrillation unit, switching it on, because he _knows_ that CPR rarely works to restart a person’s heart, that’s why he stole the goddamn ambulance in the first place.  
  
 _One two three four breathe_ , and OK, Dean doesn’t know how to use the defibrillator, but Sam’s not breathing, Sam’s heart’s not beating, and he’s seen enough crappy medical shows, it can’t be so hard, right? He’s got a list in his pocket that he scribbled down the night before, after hours surfing internet sites trying to think of every possible eventuality (and hey, actually turns out it’s kinda hard to google for possible medical side-effects of a build-up of mystical energy, which sucks because the goddamn internet’s supposed to know _everything_ ), and he pulls it out now, the ink’s run but he can still just about read his own handwriting. _Heart attack_ , it reads. _200 Joules_.   
  
It’s good enough for Dean, and he pumps on Sam’s chest with one hand and tries to work out how to use the goddamn machine with the other. Dial to 200, OK ( _Sam’s not breathing_ ). There’s that goddamn gel stuff they always use on _ER_ , where the hell’s that? ( _One two three four breathe_ ). Oh, right, that must be it, and he’s gonna need both hands for a moment, _come on, Sam, don’t fucking die_ , and he doesn’t realise he’s said it out loud until he hears it, weird in his ears after so much quiet.   
  
Then he’s pulling Sam’s shirt open (the buttons pop off but Dean figures maybe Sam can just get a gig as a catalogue model or whatever after this is fucking _over_ ) and trying to remember where they always put the pads or whatever the fuck they’re called, and then he discharges the thing, and fuck, is that it? Because Sam’s body doesn’t even move, and if Dean knows one thing from watching too much crappy TV, it’s that the whole defibrillation thing is meant to make people jump like they’ve just sat on a fucking killer bee.  
  
“Shit,” says Dean. “Shit, shit.” He feels for a pulse, but there’s nothing, and he checks the paper, turns the machine up to three hundred and lays the goddamn whatever the hell they are on Sam’s chest again. The flush is completely gone from Sam’s face now, and Dean has no idea how long it’s been, but any time at all is too long. “Don’t you do this to me,” he says, “or I swear I’m gonna kick your ass so fucking hard...” He discharges again, and Sam’s body is lifeless and still.  
  
There’s a crack of thunder outside, and oh yeah, _now_ the world’s finally catching up with the whole melodramatic gestures thing. Dean turns the dial to 360 and doesn’t think about the fact that the only person he has in the whole world, the person he loves more than anything and who he’d do anything, _anything_ to protect, is slipping away right now because of Dean, because Dean didn’t just follow his instincts and find a goddamn cave, Dean’s _not_ thinking about that and about Dad and Mom and Jess and everything they’ve lost in their lives, because dwelling on it isn’t going to save Sam, and saving Sam’s all he has left.  
  
The machine discharges, and Dean lets go of it and feels for a pulse, clenching his jaw because if it isn’t there, he’s not sure what he’s going to do next, but he thinks it might involve murder.  
  
And there. There, against his fingers, fluttering a little and then slow but steady, and Dean’s fallen to his knees before he’s even realised it, talk about your fucking melodrama, but there’s no-one to see, nothing but a hundred miles of empty, rain-washed sky and a sleeping brother who miraculously isn’t dead, so Dean figures maybe once, just this once, he can let himself break down.  
  
\----  
  
They’re two hundred miles away from the mystical whatever when Sam wakes up, because hey, Dean’s not above stealing the odd ambulance, but waiting around whistling Dixie when Manny the freakin Houdini has most likely called the cops is not his idea of a good plan, and OK, Dean’s obviously not the expert when it comes to good plans, but he’s not a total moron. Then of course there’s the fact that actually, Dean doesn’t know if the curse is broken (but if it’s not he’s seriously gonna beat the shit out of Sam), and hanging around the Muddy Pond of Mystical Freakiness also comes under _d_ for _dumb ideas_ in Dean’s brain.  
  
Sam’s lying in the back seat, and he groans and mutters something, then opens his eyes. Dean checks the rear-view mirror (hey, it just so happens that the angle for seeing behind him best is also the one that lets him see Sam’s face, OK?), and Sam’s staring at him, unfocussed.  
  
“Thank fucking God,” says Dean, and then clamps his mouth shut, because that was _totally_ not what he meant to say.  
  
Sam doesn’t seem to notice, though. “You OK?” he asks thickly, and Dean almost chokes and pulls the car over.  
  
“Am _I_ OK?” he asks, and Sam’s face twitches.  
  
“Did you bring the pizza?” he asks, and Dean feels his mouth drop open, but he can’t do a fucking thing about it. Sam eyes him for a moment, then closes his eyes. “Dude,” he says. “Lame.”  
  
\----  
  
Sam’s temperature’s normal, but he’s not done being sick. Turns out mystical energy combined with high fever (and _almost fucking dying_ ) actually is kind of a pain in the ass for the person it’s happening to as well as their manly saviour, and it takes Sam a week to fully recover (Sam claims he’s recovered in four days, but there’s that whole thing with Sam being an idiot and all, so Dean’s totally not falling for it.) Dean does the laundry (oh yeah, Sam fucking sleeps through that one and dried-in pond water pretty much smells exactly the way Dean remembers), cleans his guns, watches TV, watches Sam sleep; the curse is gone, and if almost everything that Dean finds to occupy his time with results in him being within arm’s reach of Sam, well, that’s just how it is when you live in the same motel room, you know?  
  
When the week is out, Sam gets out of bed and demands they move on, and Dean looks him over, shoves him a couple of times, then shrugs and tells him to pack. Sam slides into the passenger seat of the Impala a couple of minutes later, and it’s like something clicks back into place in Dean’s chest, which is embarrassing and kind of lame, but no-one needs to know about it except Dean, so he just lets himself enjoy the feeling.  
  
“You know, there’s one thing that really fucking bugs me about all this,” he says, and OK, there’s a hell of a lot more than _one thing_ , there’s a whole goddamn _raft_ of things, in fact there might even be an _ark_ or, you know, whatever those big fuck-off boats they use for moving oil and shit around are called, but he’s only making conversation, so.  
  
“The witch,” Sam says, and Dean wonders if he’s really that obvious.  
  
“I hate it when they’re human,” he says. “I wanted to kill that bitch so bad.”  
  
“Yeah, well,” Sam says, and he sounds a little tired, a little frayed around the edges, but he’s alive and he’s six inches away from Dean and that’s all that counts. “She’s not getting out of it scot-free.”  
  
Dean frowns. “What do you mean?”  
  
“She’s got a few... parking tickets,” Sam says solemnly, like he’s just announced that she’s committed high treason.   
  
“Parking...” Dean looks over. Sam’s watching him, his face unreadable. “Dude. I don’t think she even had a car.”  
  
Sam shrugs. “The DMV database doesn’t lie,” he says, and grins so quick it would be almost like it never happened if it wasn’t so goddamn huge.   
  
“Huh,” says Dean, and remembers wondering what exactly Sam was doing tapping away at the laptop when he was meant to be convalescing. “Parking tickets, huh?” he says, starting the engine. “How many?”  
  
Sam shrugs. “Seventy-four,” he says.  
  
Dean lets his grin spread as he pulls out and turns onto the highway. “Sounds like that’s gonna be a real pain in the ass,” he says.  
  
“Couldn’t have happened to a nicer lady,” says Sam, and Dean can’t help but agree.


End file.
